


the land is dark

by flowermasters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Intimacy, M/M, Middle-Aged Superheroes, Old Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: “Hell,” Sam says. “Pill bottles on the kitchen counter. Throw in some high blood pressure meds and Viagra and we’re ready for bingo night.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 140





	the land is dark

**Author's Note:**

> Have some fluff.
> 
> Warnings for: an instance of (safe, as directed) prescription drug usage.

Bucky’s sleep habits have improved with time—a small mercy, as he used to snap awake any time an air conditioner kicked on nearby, let alone when a door closed. But he still manages to wake up every time Sam does, no matter how careful Sam is. Bucky lets him think this isn’t the case, though he’s not sure if Sam always buys it. This time, like every time, he keeps his body still and limp, his breathing even, as Sam gingerly climbs out of bed, a joint cracking as he shuffles across the room.

Bucky, half-asleep, expects Sam to take a left turn into the en-suite, but he doesn’t; the bedroom door creaks softly as he leaves the room. Bucky does not allow this to worry him, just tosses an arm over the warm spot left behind on the mattress, but then Sam stays gone. The warm spot gets cool. Bucky’s brain engages further the longer he lies there pretending not to wait. He gives it about five more minutes—1:48 AM by the soft blue glow of the clock on Sam’s nightstand—and then he’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He tugs on his sweatpants, then pads out of the room, the wood floor in the hallway evening-cool under his feet. Sam’s turned none of the lights on; the apartment is quiet, sleepy blue all over, no ambient sound to contend with this high up. Bucky likes this peace much better than the solitude that he’s been living in for the past few nights.

He finds Sam in the kitchen, wearing only boxers and a slumped posture, looking through the cabinets by the light above the stove. Judging by the way he’s squinting in the orangish glow, he can’t see much of anything, but he’s probably too committed to the idea of going straight back to bed to turn the overhead light on.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs from the doorway, so as not to startle him. Sam, predictably, startles anyway.

“Jesus,” he says, glancing in Bucky’s direction. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, walking further into the kitchen. “Forgot my bell.”

This earns him a wry smile. “Did I wake you?” Sam asks.

“Nah,” Bucky says. The kitchen isn’t large; it only takes him three strides to be right next to Sam. “What’re you looking for?”

“Tea,” Sam says. “But I think _someone_ may have moved it.”

“Must’ve been one of the houseguests I had while you were gone,” Bucky returns easily, grinning when Sam pulls a face at him. “You want the herbal kind?”

Of course he does; it’s the only kind of tea he drinks, and he does so begrudgingly, having on more than one occasion claimed that it tastes like peat moss. The black tea in the cabinet belongs exclusively to Bucky. Sam is a coffee man, always has been, always will be. But the fancy herbal tea is good for inflammation, at least according to Banner, who still sends Sam a parcel every birthday and Christmas. It must work to some extent, though, because Sam keeps drinking it.

Sam sighs, long-suffering, which Bucky takes for a yes; he reaches past Sam’s outstretched hand and pulls out the box. “Sit down,” he says, nodding towards the kitchen table. “I’ll make you some.”

“I can make my own tea, Barnes,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. “Go on back to bed.”

This is a familiar song and dance. Bucky gently withholds the box from Sam when he reaches for it. “I don’t mind, sugar.”

“Don’t _sugar_ me,” Sam grouses, moving to fetch the teakettle from another cabinet instead of reaching for the tea again. Bucky doesn’t miss the way he favors one side as he walks—his right, the side that usually bothers him. “You only call me that when you think I’m being ridiculous.”

“S’that so?” Bucky says, watching as Sam fills the kettle with water at the sink.

“Yep,” Sam says, turning and meeting Bucky’s eyes as he returns with the kettle. “ _Baby_ is for dirty talk. _Sweetheart_ is a little more casual; _darlin’,_ too. Then there’s _honey_ , for when you think I’ve done something I need to apologize for. And _sugar_ , for when you’re being a pain in my ass.”

Bucky absorbs all of this silently, nonplussed. “Are you going to let me make the tea or not?” he asks.

“Well, since you’re twisting my arm.” Sam plunks the kettle down on the stovetop, then trudges toward the kitchen table. As he sits down in one of the two available chairs, another joint pops softly, and he lets out a little hiss of discomfort.

“You alright?” Bucky asks, faux-casual, as he tweaks the knob to turn a burner on.

“Fine,” Sam says. “Middle-aged bones creak, what can I say.”

“Mm,” Bucky says, shifting to face Sam as he leans against the edge of the counter and waits for the water to boil. “So when are you going to tell me how bad it was?”

Sam hasn’t told him much of anything, really. In his last phone call before getting on his flight, he’d said everything had gone alright, but the wings would need some repairs; then, when Bucky picked him up, he said he was too tired for anything but a shower and bed. As is customary, he had not complained when Bucky joined him in the shower, nor did his readily-apparent exhaustion keep them from making love in said shower. It’s a post-mission routine they stick to, even when—as is usually the case—Bucky’s been with him the whole time.

Sam looks at the table, absorbed in the act of wiping up a crumb he probably can’t even see in this light. “The reason I had to leave the wings with Baby Stark,” he says, “is because they got ripped off me.”

Bucky inhales softly, but doesn’t say the first thing he thinks, which is _Jesus H. Christ, Sam_. The trick with Sam, he’s learned, is to be cool; the more obviously you fret over him, the more he insists he doesn’t need to be fretted over. Play your cards right and he’ll open up without even realizing it. “Do you think she’ll be able to fix them?”

“Of course she will,” Sam says. “And if not—well, they’ve been replaced before.” 

This is true—the wings have been upgraded or overhauled more times in the last decade or so than Bucky can possibly keep track of, by Shuri, Morgan Stark, and various other tech wizards. “Were you hurt?” Bucky asks. _Are you hurt_ , he means. This all must’ve happened within the last thirty-six hours; Sam only left Japan this morning—yesterday morning, now. Bucky saw clips of all the fuss in Tokyo on the five A.M. news, though thankfully not even a blip of Sam’s wings being torn apart had made the air.

“No,” Sam says. “Didn’t have far to fall.” 

Playing it cool or not, Bucky is momentarily lost in the idea of what could’ve happened. Sam’s gear offers the best protection possible, but Bucky, of all people, knows exactly how much effort it takes to break a grown man’s spine. The answer, especially for someone like him—someone enhanced—is _not that much_. One sharp jerk at a good angle, or rather a very bad one, and that’s it. 

He gets a brief flash, sense memory, of the wrench of carbon fiber in his grip, of the way it felt to yank Sam out of the sky himself.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam says, looking at Bucky now, “and stop it. It was a long time ago and it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says, coming back to himself, abruptly aware that the kettle has begun to whistle. “I knew I should’ve gone with you.”

The guy Sam tangled with is an American expat, a scientist working for a Japanese company—predictably, whatever the hell he’s been messing with backfired recently, severely mutating him and killing several in the process. Sam was called in to subdue and contain him. 

Sam makes for good press where American image abroad is concerned; Bucky, who even after all this time is still mildly mistrusted by most people with real authority—and rather grateful for it, as it means lower standards all around—isn’t necessary for the upkeep of that image. So Sam got the call three nights ago and told Bucky not to worry, he didn’t expect any problems, and that was that. 

“You couldn’t have done anything to prevent it,” Sam says. “Besides. I didn’t get hurt.”

“Your back’s not bothering you at all, then,” Bucky says dryly as he pulls a mug out of the cabinet, this one a chipped relic stolen from some motel or another. “You just had a hankering for—oh, what’d you call it— _mulled grass clippings_ at two in the morning.”

Sam groans and rubs his forehead instead of replying, which is how Bucky knows he really is tired, and probably sore as hell, too. Bucky thinks back on the shower, tries to remember if he noticed any bruising while they were fooling around, but his attention had been elsewhere. “Jesus. We got any whiskey to put in that?”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “Or I can get you a pill.”

“It’s not _bad_ ,” Sam says. “But I’m not saying no.”

There’s a little orange prescription bottle on the kitchen counter, right between the protein powder and a large bottle of multivitamins. Sam takes the multivitamin religiously, but avoids the painkillers if he can help it. Bucky fetches him one while the tea steeps and hears him sigh. 

“Hell,” Sam says. “Pill bottles on the kitchen counter. Throw in some high blood pressure meds and Viagra and we’re ready for bingo night.” 

“You don’t need Viagra, su—Sam,” Bucky says.

“Thank you,” Sam says, “but that’s not the point.”

Bucky brings him his mug, filled high with fragrant, steaming tea, and the pill. Sam mumbles his thanks and half-smiles when Bucky passes a hand over his upper back as he heads for the fridge. “Well,” Bucky says, “don’t hate me for asking, but have you started to realize you might be getting too old for this?”

“That’s rich coming from you, Silver Fox,” Sam says, running a finger around the rim of his mug, evasive.

Bucky raises his eyebrows at Sam from around the refrigerator door. “I have it on good authority that the gray is sexy.”

“Sexy?” Sam repeats, mouth quirking, as Bucky begins preparations on a grilled cheese sandwich. “Must’ve been one of your groupies that told you that.”

The streaks at Bucky’s temples started coming in about three years ago; his facial hair has been peppered with gray for some years longer than that. He’s not sure why the gray hairs, plus a few wrinkles around his eyes, have been the signs of aging that his myriad physical enhancements can’t whip. Or maybe the experiments have done their job pretty well and he’d be a lot more gray without them. Technically, of course, he’d be dead without them, a notion for which it feels a little strange to be grateful, given the circumstances. 

Sam, for all his grouching, hasn’t aged much, either—at least not in his appearance. There’s a sickle-shaped scar at his left temple that’s been there for about six years now, but c’est la vie. His hair is hanging onto its color, and he’s as handsome and broad-shouldered as he’s been as long as Bucky’s known him. 

And Bucky would know—he’s been paying pretty close attention to Sam’s body for the last, oh, ten or eleven years, including the time he spent trying to convince himself that his interest was purely professional. They were _partners_ , after all; looking after one another came with the territory.

That’s still what they’re called publicly: partners. Privately—well, privately, they’ve never called themselves much of anything. It hasn’t really been necessary. The shield came with a lot of scrutiny, but Steve had—very thoughtfully—set a tone of public sexlessness that allowed for as much privacy as possible given the circumstances.

“I’m serious,” Bucky says, glancing over his shoulder at Sam as butter sizzles in the skillet. “You want to keep dancing around this conversation, darlin’, we’ll foxtrot.”

Sam sighs, meeting Bucky’s gaze dourly. “If you’re asking me to retire,” he says, “the answer is no.”

“I’m not asking anything of you,” Bucky says, reaching for the spatula. “Just wondering if you’ve thought about it, is all.”

Sam takes a sip of tea and grimaces, either at the taste or temperature or both. “Of course I have,” he says. “Hard not to, when I’ve got a bad knee and sciatica like you wouldn’t believe.”

Bucky plates the sandwich, then cuts it in half, burning the pad of his thumb slightly in the process. He sets the plate on the table in front of Sam, then sits down, absentmindedly waving his hand in order to catch a cool breeze on his thumb. “Want me to kiss it better?” Sam asks.

“I got something you can kiss.”

Sam grins, then lets his bare knees knock lightly, affectionately, against Bucky’s thigh under the table. “Thanks.”

“’Course,” Bucky says, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’m going to level with you. I know I can’t talk you out of anything you want to do, whether I like it or not, and you know I’ll follow you anywhere, whether _you_ like it or not.”

Sam swallows a mouthful of sandwich hastily, looking at Bucky with a furrowed brow. “You don’t really think of it like that,” he says, the barest hint of uncertainty in his voice. “That you’re just—following me.”

“Of course not,” Bucky says, although he wouldn’t mind it if he was; Sam would, though, and that makes a difference. “I believe in what we do. It’s good work and someone’s got to do it. But that someone doesn’t have to be us, Sam. Not always, and not forever.”

“I know that.”

“I know you _know_ it,” Bucky says. “But do you believe it?”

Sam takes another sip of tea, ruminating on this for a few seconds. “You know,” he says, “I didn’t get out of bed expecting to have a philosophical conversation or anything. Introspection should be outlawed before oh-nine-hundred.”

Bucky just raises his eyebrows, and predictably, Sam caves. “What do you want me to say?” he asks. “That this is me being proud? Having a mid-life crisis? Because that’s not it.”

Bucky waits, and Sam keeps going. “It’s just—this has been my life for damn near two decades,” he says, fidgeting, running his finger around the rim of the mug again in a nervous gesture Bucky knows well. “My identity. My cause, calling, whatever you want to call it. I’ve had this one for so long that maybe I don’t want to let go of it. Sue me.”

Bucky smiles wryly. “Oh, well, then,” he says. “I wouldn’t know anything about identity issues, honey.”

Sam gives him a rueful look, one that probably means to be apologetic but comes off sort of hangdog with how tired he looks, and Bucky softens. “I’m sorry,” Sam says. “Like I said. Nothing good comes of self-reflection at this hour.”

Bucky smiles at that, watches as Sam takes another bite of grilled cheese. “You’re scared you won’t have a purpose without it.”

“In a nutshell, yeah,” Sam says, after a beat. “Like I said. The superhero gig is a part of me, even though I know I can’t hang on to it forever.”

“The Falcon’s alright,” Bucky says. “But I like Sam Wilson more.”

Sam rolls his eyes at that, but he smiles, too, the uncharacteristically shy grin he always makes when Bucky has said something he finds charming. Bucky wasn’t trying to be charming, but he’ll take it.

“I’ve thought about it,” Sam muses. “What I could do if I did give it up, or at least scaled back. I know there’s work outside the field—I’ve done it before. It’s just something I’ve got to ease my way into, s’all.” 

He holds Bucky’s gaze steadily, but his voice is gentle when he asks, “Are you okay with that?”

“‘Course,” Bucky says, and means it, at least mostly. “But no more solo missions.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“And you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Worrywart,” Sam grumbles, “where is the _trust_ ,” and offers Bucky some sandwich. He rolls his eyes when Bucky leans in to eat a bite from his hand, but he smiles, too, the goofy, secret smile.

When the sandwich is gone and the last of his tea has been grimacingly chugged, Sam gets up and pads slowly to the sink, rinsing the plate and mug with quiet clinks. Bucky watches him for a moment in the dimness of their kitchen, studying the breadth of his shoulders and the sweet, vulnerable dip of the small of his back. 

He’s on his feet without really even thinking about it, pressing his chest lightly to Sam’s back, resting his hands on the countertop on either side of Sam’s hips. “I missed you,” Bucky says. “Too much. Come to bed, Sam.”

Sam hums, allowing himself to be held. “Yeah,” he says. “Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> _No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid_   
>  _Just as long as you stand, stand by me_


End file.
